See You in Hell
by The Scarlet Rose
Summary: He had laughed to himself then, hanging up the phone, angry and bitter. Full of rage. He had scoffed and ignored her plight, had ignored his own in favor of the feeling of wallowing in the warm hatred of betrayal. Never thought twice about the words until now. When she is trussed up in front of him, the blade shaking in his hand as he struggles to wrap his fingers around it.


Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Supernatural, nor the show itself, or make any profit off of writing stories about it. Long story short, I'm a loser fanfic writer, please don't sue.

Warnings: Mention of torture

_"See you in Hell."_

X

He had laughed to himself then, hanging up the phone, angry and bitter. Full of rage. He had scoffed and ignored her plight, had ignored his own in favor of the feeling of wallowing in the warm hatred of betrayal. Never minding that she was in the same boat as him, only she was sinking faster. Never thought twice about the words until now. Until now when they ring home. When she is trussed up in front of him, the blade shaking in his hand as he struggles to wrap his fingers around it.

"See you in Hell."

The hellhounds had ripped her to shreds, he was sure. But Hell had a way of putting you back together again. Of stitching together ripped sinew and broken bones. Mending flesh flawless only to pull it apart again.

Bela looked good in green. Dean remembered. She looked good in green. It did something to her eyes that Dean was sure women had a word for. He didn't know it, only knew that in his mind's eye, the faint image of her was warm, and alive, and green.

"You know what you have to do, Dean." Alastair speaks from behind him. "You know what our deal was. You get off if you put them on."

And above him, Bela is crying. Her arms stretched out like Christ on the crucifix and Dean can't help but think of how unfitting it is. Of how Bela was anything but a martyr, and that how once upon a time that was almost a trait that he admired about her.

But now, she looks like a shell, a fragment of herself. Floating in the madness that is Hell. Dean realizes that she's been here longer than he has. That she's been ripped apart and pulled to pieces for more time.

"**DO IT**, Boy." And Dean's hand clutches at the blade. He hears that tone in Alastair's voice, the tone that's followed by the pain, that's followed by the rage, not even the humorous torture that's sometimes bearable, but the one that rips Dean apart in ways he could not have even fathomed until it was real, until it was happening to him. The one that has him standing in front of Bela now, blade in blood slick hand.

_'This is wrong. This...'_ And the whisper in his mind fades out like a flame in the wind. Dean pushes past it and approaches the rack. On it, Bela screams, pleads, until she looks down. Until she sees him, until the faint sense of hope flutters over her face, and a smile tugs at the corners of her mouth, so faint it could almost have no been there at all. Until for just a second, she thinks he's here to rescue her. That he'll pry the chains off her hand and kill Alastair and let her feet touch the ground and they'll run and run. Not far. They'd never get far, but for a few days, hours, moments, they'd be free. There'd be no pain. And that was worth the heart fluttering hope.

Until she saw his eyes. Until she realized that his eyes weren't Dean's. The Dean she joked with. Flirted with. Almost killed. The Dean who'd she'd realized she had more in common with than she thought. No, this was a different creature all together. This Dean had been pulled and ripped apart and put back together so many times he wasn't even sure he'd recognize himself. Wasn't even sure if he was still him anymore, or if he was just Hell, and that everything that made him human had fallen out of him. Run down his thighs and over his knees and through his toes and poured out of him in hot crimson streams like everything else.

And he'd had enough. He'd given enough. To Alastair. To Hell. To Bela. To everyone. And all they'd done is squander it. Victims who never say thank you and monsters who won't stay dead. A father who was never proud. And all he wanted was to not feel it. To pull it out of himself and put it into someone else. To give them that pain and fear until it ran down their toes and into the nothingness.

"That's right." Alastair is saying "That's right. Cut it all away."

Above him, Bela is crying, barely recognizable as herself. _See you in Hell_. Above him, Bela pleads and sobs. Above him, Bela is there as a stark reminder of his humanity and his failures. Of what he's given up onto to have empty hands and cold beds in return.

He takes a step towards her, and readies his blade. Behind him, Alastair is singing. Loudly. So loudly it reverberates through the room, bouncing off the walls. Behind him, Alastair is dancing with shadows. Above him, Bela is crying, whispering his name.

Dean raises his knife.

He's given enough.

_See you in Hell._

Above him, Bela screams as he cuts into her for the first time. There's a saying about the first cut being the deepest.

Dean is about to prove them wrong.

* * *

A.N.: So I came up with this random headcannon after realizing that Dean's lasts words to Bela were "I'll see you in Hell", and I got to wondering _'What if he did see her in Hell? What if he tortured her? What if he was the first soul he tortured?'_ (After all, Alastair did imply that it was a woman.) And so I drabbled out this little ditty at 4am.


End file.
